


From Below

by SolarMorrigan



Series: Solar's 007 Fest 2019 [5]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, M/M, Wingfic, mentions of captivity and torture, slight medical bullshittery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-11 21:43:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19550548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolarMorrigan/pseuds/SolarMorrigan
Summary: More nights than not, Bond finds Q standing out on the balcony, staring at the sky he can no longer reach





	From Below

**Author's Note:**

> Day 5! I tried writing wingfic! I've never done that before and it turned out angsty as hell, even thought it was written for "Breezes" on the [Fluff Prompt Table](https://mi6cafe.wordpress.com/007-fest/007-fest-2019-prompt-tables/). It just didn't want to be fluff, I guess

It’s been a year, and Bond still finds Q standing out on the balcony more nights than not, hair tossed by the breeze as he looks out into the light-drenched city sky.

His wings twitch, but that’s to be expected now.

Bond rustles his own wings as he approaches, in case Q hadn’t heard the door slide open, announcing his presence before putting a hand on Q’s shoulder.

Q inhales, holds it, and lets it out in a shaky sigh. His face is pale in the backwash light, the shadows beneath his eyes more pronounced, and the muscles beneath Bond’s palm are trembling tight. Sometimes it’s nightmares that push Q out here. Sometimes it’s melancholy. By the tense set of Q’s jaw, Bond can see that tonight it’s the pain.

He knows better than to offer anything for it. Q will only take paracetamol after having declined anything stronger past the worst of his recovery, of the opinion that the fog they put him in is worse than the pain they take away. He’s likely to have already taken as much as he safely can; the rest just needs to be waited out.

Instead of painkillers, Bond offers company; an ear if Q wants one and something to lean on if he needs it.

It’s quiet for a time, only the faint rush of late-night traffic to play in their ears, but Q eventually speaks.

“I still miss it,” he says quietly. “I miss the wind in my feathers and the feeling of stretching my wings. I hate only being able to feel the breeze from the ground now. It doesn’t feel right.”

Bond holds back the offer to take Q up flying with him; he’d floated that idea past Q once before, and the resulting fit had been shattering. Of course, that hadn’t been long at all after they’d gotten Q back, but Bond is wary of making the offer again. If Q wants it, he’ll ask.

“It’s been a year. A whole god damned _year_. You’d think I’d be over myself by now,” Q snapped, hissing when his wings jerked behind him, trying to flutter with agitation like they used to.

“There’s no acceptable timeline on this, Q. What you went through…”

It had been a week before they’d gotten Q back, and by then it was too late to repair what had been done; his wings had been mangled in an effort to make him do what his captors had demanded of him, and the doctors had deemed the nerve damage to be irreparable. The pain had slowly, _slowly_ become more manageable, but the appendages will never work like they once had. They’re weak and unbalanced now, responding poorly when Q tries to move them.

He would never be able to fly again.

“You need to let your body and mind heal in their own time,” Bond concludes.

“Like you always do, you mean?” Q spits bitterly.

“What’s that you always say when I catch you thumping the computer because it won’t work?” Bond turns a sardonic smile on Q. ““Do as I say, not as I do”?”

Q says nothing, still staring out across the skyline, and Bond lets the moment go.

When Q does speak again, it isn’t what Bond had expected to hear.

“Do you resent me?”

_“What?”_

“Do you–”

“I heard you, just– Christ, Q, what the hell kind of question is that?”

“A valid one. One I’ve been too scared and too selfish to ask, because I’ve been so fucking grateful to have you here. But,” Q breaks off for a moment, clearing his throat before soldiering on in the clinical voice Bond remembers from the comms on harsh missions, “now I need to know.”

“What is it I’m meant to resent you for, exactly?” Bond snips, though he’s sure he knows the answer.

Q had needed help after the abduction. At first, he’d been in no physical condition to do much of anything on his own, and after that had been grueling physical therapy; he’d needed to relearn how to balance without his wings’ intuitive motions, and had had to strengthen and stretch them as much as possible. Beyond that, one couldn’t exactly just shake off a week of captivity and torture.

It hadn’t really been hard question. It hadn’t really even _been_ a question. Bond had resigned and taken the time to help Q recover.

“I ended your career,” Q says.

_“I_ ended my career,” Bond corrects him firmly. “It was my decision, my terms. You didn’t ask me to do a goddamned thing.”

“You felt obligated–”

“I wanted to _help you.”_

Frustrated with the way Q’s eyes are still glued to the sky, Bond slides in front of him, cupping his face to turn his attention fully towards Bond. “You’ve always done the same for me,” Bond reminds Q gruffly – and he had. Through Bond’s own injuries, through snarling moods after bad missions, through every disappearing act Bond pulled in the field and out of it, Q had stayed by him. “Why is it I can’t be there for you?”

Q opens his mouth, shuts it, blinks at Bond as though he’s just realizing he’s there. “I…” He blinks again, and his eyes are wet, bright with emotion and sharp with some indefinable ache that seems beyond just the physical. “I can’t hold you back, James.”

For a moment, Bond doesn’t answer. He draws Q in close, looping his arms low around Q’s waist to avoid jostling his wings, and Q lets him, hugs him back fiercely and buries his face in the side of Bond’s neck. “When have I ever let anything hold me back?” Bond asks, turning his mouth the side of Q’s head, pressing a gentle kiss to his hair. “No, I’m afraid you’re the one who’s stuck with me.”

A noise comes out of Q’s chest, somewhere between laughter and grief, and Bond holds him steady. Q’s wings rise up in front of Bond now, sooty jackdaw wings that melt into the night and that had been so beautiful spread in the sun and shining dark in flight. There’s a sharp punch of anger in Bond’s chest, the familiar desire to find the people who had tethered Q to the earth forever and make them suffer, though they’re long dead. Instead, he folds his own wings around Q, a shield of slate blue merlin feathers, and holds him closer, still.

“I’ve got you,” Bond promises. “I don’t want to be anywhere else.”

Body drawn tight, nearly vibrating, like a plucked violin string, Q nods. His wings twitch against Bond’s when they brush together, doing their best to meet his protection halfway, to curl up around or inside him, and Q grunts in pain, in frustration, while his wings jerk uselessly. Bond hushes him, rubbing soothing circles into the small of his back, and waits for some of the tension to subside.

“I’ve got you,” he says again, and Q sighs.

The breeze winds around them both, standing out on a balcony high off the ground, and for a moment, it’s almost enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Also posted on [Tumblr](https://solarmorrigan.tumblr.com/post/186075354543/from-below-james-bond-00q-day-5-i-tried-to), if you'd like to come Fest with us there


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